"I'll escort you back inside."
"That's not necessary." Her words were sharper than she intended.
"I know. I'll join you just the same."
When they reached the entrance to the auction hall, Lucas opened the door for her. Oppressive heat pressed against her as she entered the hall, and the overwhelming odor of too many bodies in a stuffy space burned her nose. She slowed her steps just long enough for her eyes to adjust to the dim light before she turned back to Lucas. "As you can see, I'm inside now and quite safe, so I'll bid you good day."
But he ignored her dismissal and leaned closer to be heard over the chatter. "Is that the Cavesee Vase?"
Olivia followed his gaze to where she'd left her father earlier. Edward Brannon and his brother, Thomas, were unpacking the imposing blue-and- white porcelain Chinese vase—a celebrated relic from the Ming dynasty—from the straw of its shipping crate.
Relief rushed her. It had arrived. Her father had endeavored for years to secure its purchase, and they'd waited more than fifteen long months for the piece to arrive on England's shore. As with any such critical transaction, fear that it would be damaged or lost at sea in transit had hovered.
But here it was: large, intact, and stunning.
She lifted her chin and seized the opportunity to gain an upper hand over the Averys. "Yes, my father acquired it on behalf of Mr. Francis Milton's chinoiserie collection at Cloverton Hall."
She knew the effect that name would have on Lucas, and she paused dramatically to let it penetrate and have its full effect. "I must be going. My father will require my assistance."
Not waiting for a response, she curtsied and wound her way through the onlookers to where her father and uncle were uncrating the massive tianqiuping vase, which was nearly two feet in height and required both men to safely lift it.
Perhaps it had been an exaggeration. Her father did not need her help. But how else was she to learn everything there was to know about evaluating antiquities if she did not participate as much as possible?
As she drew closer, the details became more obvious: the unmistakable cobalt-blue hue on the bright white background. The fierce, five-toed dragon circling the globular base—a symbol of the emperor. Lotus flowers embellished the columnar neck, and lishui waves circled the base and upper rim.
Overwhelming pride engulfed her, and a grin quirked her lips. Brannon Antiquities had done something Avery & Sons would never be able to do: supply priceless pieces to the famed Milton chinoiserie collection. The Averys might have bested them on other fronts, but renewed determination fired through her. This would be the first of many instances in which the Brannons would prevail. It might be wicked to hold bitterness toward the other family, but surely there was nothing wrong in celebrating this hard-won victory.
CHAPTER ONE
London, England, late August 1818
Brannon Antiquities & Company
Olivia could hardly believe the proposition that had just been presented to her. This was the opportunity she'd imagined only in daydreams.
Giddy anticipation mingled with intoxicating disbelief, and for a brief moment, a dazzling glimpse into an entirely new existence glistened—one where she was independent. Self-sufficient. Needed. Valued.
She looked to the elegantly clad woman in front of her: Mrs. Agnes Milton, the widow of her father's most influential client. "You'd like for me to come to Cloverton Hall to evaluate your collection?"
Mrs. Milton shifted the fluffy Pomeranian in her arms before nonchalantly adjusting the jade kid-leather glove on her hand. "Yes. My husband told me of you—a young woman who assisted with her father's appraisals and knew more about antiquities than any purveyor he knew. Now, I find myself in a peculiar situation and require assistance from one knowledgeable on such matters."
Summoning fortitude, Olivia glanced at her uncle Thomas, who was, at present, the only other person in the receiving room of the Brannon Antiquities warehouse. Thomas Brannon had assumed full ownership of their business after her father's death four years prior. Never would he openly display disapproval in front of a client, but his hooded left eye twitched, and his lips had flattened to a thin line.
